It's Friday night after the last screening of this new movie
and they are leaving the theater midst a rush of people
both of them thinking, "I guess this crowd is going straight to bed
god, look at their faces, stamped with apathy"
and the subway is already closed
and it's cold so they are not holding hands
He is trying to get them a cab
while she is on the sidewalk, jumping in one place,
her cotton candy hair going up in the air,
filling her nostrils with cherry tobacco smells, Oriental yet close
and suddenly, there are
thoughts running
behind her eyes
he knows what this means by now, so no questions asked
the city is glowing dark blue and yellow, the flashes of the passing cars
right there, at Park Street
make it seem almost metropolitan
It's warm in the cab and they take off their coats.
He is growing uneasy, thumping his fists against the bricks of silence:
"what's on your mind?" - his accent is thick and unshy
"you know i'm writing, I have been thinking about this for so long and I think I know how to say it now, do you remember what I told you before, you know when I'm thinking about writing"
They are headed to Harvard Square, but the traffic is heavy - heavy for Boston,
there are sleek white limousines on the road, maybe a final club party
or maybe a just because
so the two of them are stuck in the car to the sounds of smooth jazz
and as she rolls her eyes with disgust to all this, he takes another little stone
from his pocket and throws it at her
"why don't you give it a try then? really, actually try?
why don't you publish something, send it somewhere?
why don't you show all this to someone who knows or understands?"
and she looks straight into him through her tar-black eyelashes,
"I could also, perhaps, dye my hair blond and change my name
become a trophy wife, an event planner,
taking care of being beautiful and terrible and the beautifully terrible
and just call it a life
your advice always comes with a twist of unintended schadenfreude.
Let's be real here, what are the odds that I will be the next Orhan Pamuk?
You are right, I can't stop the dreams from dancing through my head or
the heights from giving me a rush
as skydiving did to my crazy parents but
they don't believe in flying anymore. And I don't believe in poetry."
